


now we're safe at home, jack

by jonphaedrus



Series: don't forget your old shipmates [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Families, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Sometimes, the universe is merciful. Rarely, yes, but sometimes. Sometimes, when people cannot make decisions or do their best with what is handed to them, the universe takes a step forward, presses a finger between their shoulder blades, and—Pushes.





	now we're safe at home, jack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chuchisushi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/gifts).



> this is a belated birthday gift for [my sister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi), whose birthday was in march but the bb ended up not getting posted until july. 
> 
> thanks to my betas, [zann](http://corvosdaughter.tumblr.com) and [drea](http://missdreawrites.tumblr.com) and my lovely artist [tigre](http://tiigre.tumblr.com), who were all wonderful to work with and made this as great a project as it was!
> 
> and finally, this literally would not exist without the dh bb run by [luci](http://carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com) who did a tremendous job as bb mod and gave us all the chance to take part in this awesome community project!!

(cover illustration by [@tiigre](https://tiigre.tumblr.com/post/162738764095/dishonored-big-bang-2017))

The parole officer had a wart that was about the size of his nose on his nose, and Daud hadn’t liked him from the start. He knew it was a combative streak that he didn’t need to hang onto going forward, that trying to force himself to mellow out was _essential_ in the coming months and years, but he hadn’t gotten there yet. So, he just grit his teeth and glared at the man, arms crossed over his barrel chest and an intense desire to smoke nothing short of ten cigarettes burning at the back of his mind.

“Well, Daud, it looks like you still don’t have a job,” said the man. Daud, with his hands crammed into his armpits to keep from fidgeting, shrugged. “You know that was a part of your plea bargain.”

“It’s not for lack of trying,” he replied, and censored the _asshole_ before it ever got past his lips. “I haven’t exactly got a pretty mug. Nobody wants to hire a man who looks like he’s taken a few too many glass bottles to the face.” Which...was exactly what had happened to Daud, actually. 

The parole officer sighed, rubbed his temples. 

“Be that as it may,” he continued, pinching the bridge of his nose, “If you can’t find something by the end of the month, we’ll have to re-evaluate your future plan going forward. I doubt that Mr. Kaldwin will be happy to hear about it.”

“He knows,” Daud replied, a bad taste in his mouth. Octavius, weird as he was, had given him an extra month on rent.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when that month was up. All his ill-gotten gains from his time with Burrows had been seized by the state (good riddance) and savings only lasted so long. There were options.

He didn’t like any of them.

The parole officer closed his file. “I have a friend,” the man said at last, “Who I think could use someone like you.” He took a sticky note and wrote a name and number on it, folded it up, and passed it over to Daud. “Give him a ring, if you want to. He’s a good man, but he won’t take nonsense. Runs a bar. Might be up your alley, if you think you can keep it together.”

“Do I look like,” Daud said very slowly, his upper lip curling into a sneer, “I _can’t_ keep it together? I kept my mouth shut tight in jail and survived that shitfest of a court trial, I think I can deal with not knifing a man in a bar.” The older man frowned at him.

“And it’s that kind of talk exactly that makes me worried. Give Samuel a call, Daud. I’ll see you next month.” Daud took the number, balled it up, and shoved it in his pocket. And left.

 

 

It was a dark, muggy night in Dunwall, the air pea-soup thick. Gnats and no-see-ums were out in force, buzzing in scads and clouds as he walked out of the parole office, parked his ass under a nearby streetlight that was on the fritz, and lit up a cigarette. In the mid-June humidity, Daud puffed silently on his cigarette until it was down to the filter, watched the cars drive past, their yellow headlights casting broad glowing clouds over the black of the tarmac, cool in the stale night air.

In his pocket, his fingers turned the scrap of paper, the post-it, around and around. He thumbed the edge where the adhesive had stuck together until it was coated in fuzz and not properly sticky any more, until he could feel the paper begin to fray. He lit a second cigarette, smoked that one down as well. Pressed his head back into the pole behind him, and sighed.

There was literally no reason for him to not call the man he’d been given the number for. Bouncer work wasn’t bad, and Daud had the look and build for it. He might not have been up to height restrictions, but he could cover fairly well with lifts and the fact that he looked like ten miles of bad road, especially in the right light and _especially_ if he was dealing with someone who was drunk enough that they needed to be escorted from the premises. But even with that said...it felt _wrong_.

He’d never taken a handout in his life. Not even from Hiram; he’d worked for every single thing he’d gained as the Knife. He’d never been like Campbell or the brothers Pendleton, who would snap at scraps from the table, no matter how rank or rotten the scent. He wasn’t going to start now.

Daud was nothing if not stubborn to a fucking fault, and he’d rather pull teeth than owe his caseworker anything. Than owe this bar guy a favour. Than owe Octavius any more favours than he already owed Octavius. He’d _learned_ his lesson about this. He knew better than to get in over his head, because people only offered things if they were going to demand ten times back what you gave in the first place promised.

Not this time. Not again.

He itched to light up another cigarette, but knew better than to waste his pack, since he’d likely not be able to afford another one for a while. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, fished out one of the shitty dum-dums he’d stolen from the parole office, and stuck that into his mouth instead. It had been a mystery one, and he’d grabbed it because it had seemed a safe amount of danger to risk. Not quite a gamble, nothing to lose, the possibility to win. A lot safer than flipping knives.

Daud made a face, and spat it back into his hand, and hucked it into the nearby public garbage bin. It didn’t even rattle, just stuck head-first against the plastic bag inside with a soft rustle.

“Fucking butterscotch,” he said. Fuck that.

With nothing at all in his mouth, just chewing on his tongue, he set off on the walk home, jaywalking the street against the light and dodging between slow-moving cars with their big wet yellow headlights as he ducked between the apartment buildings on the other side and directly into the alleyway. He could have waited to take public transit, but it always made him _antsy_. Too many people, too many enclosed spaces, not enough room. He always felt like he was a half a breath away from starting a fight. 

Ironically, he was almost safer in back alleys at night. If people didn’t know who he was (who he _had_ been) they knew how to stay away from someone with the right kind of fuck-off walk. Daud was big for his size, solid as stone, so ripped he barely fit in his shitty thrifted shirts, and he carried a butterfly knife with him if the way he walked didn’t deal with the problem before it got bad. He wasn’t so sure he could even use the knife, given what had happened Before, but he had it, and in a worst-case scenario, he had his fists. He wasn’t afraid of a fight. 

People tended to underestimate him.

 

  

It was an hour walk back to his shitty apartment, so he took his time, enjoyed the ambiance of Dunwall in the night-time. Dodged other recluses, fast-walking college students, and people like him—people who lived on the edge (or _over_ the edge) of the wrong side of the law. He skirted the seedier neighbourhoods, not wanting to actually get shot for his troubles.

It was when he was about four blocks from home that Daud carefully backed to the side of the alley to avoid a kid. She couldn’t have been older than twelve, and that was at the high end. She was wearing the tell-tale clothes of a street kid—ratty old sweatshirt about four sizes too large, unwashed and grimy, sweatpants, too-big hiking boots. A baseball cap. A shitty windbreaker.

He got out of her way, because Daud knew what it was like to be a scared hungry street kid. He’d been one for too long. He knew what it was like to be afraid of your life going to hell in a handbasket real fucking fast. He knew what it was like to be scared of strangers at night.

He waited until she’d walked past him before he moved on, ready to go home and eat rice and lentils for dinner. To think of some way to scrape together rent for the month.

And then the street kid’s footsteps turned around, reversed direction, raced straight towards him, and her tiny little malnourished hand and wrist shot out and straight into his back pocket. Daud didn’t keep his wallet there; he wasn’t stupid—he kept his cigarettes there, his lighter with them. His wallet was in the interior pocket of his jacket, zipped shut, where nobody could grab it. His knife was in a special holder he’d sewn into his sleeve.

She jumped backwards, but he’d already spun around and grabbed her wrist before she could wiggle away like an unhappy cat with all her bones gone to liquid and all her joints locked like some demented jenga snake of a person. Her wrist was so tiny his fingers wrapped all the way around with room to spare, and she tried to wrench away from him, her shoulder straining in the socket, staring up at him with huge brown eyes.

She was shaking.

It wasn’t even cold, so it had to be fear.

For a long moment, neither one of them said anything at all, and then Daud let the girl go. She stumbled back, still shaking, and panted as she stared at him. He didn’t say anything in response and just watched her, to see what she would do. She had the opportunity now to run, but she wasn’t.

She was just staring at him. Absolutely petrified.

Daud knew when he was hooked, and pulled out his cigarettes, lit one up, and stuck it between his teeth. He always was one to get invested into little desperate looking kids who needed a warm bath and a snack. Like damp, pitiful cats. “You gonna run?” He asked the girl, one eyebrow cocked. She didn’t move; a deer in the headlights. “Or you gonna just stay.” Still nothing. No movement. She was hardly even breathing. He waited, patiently, breathing in his cigarette smoke. “How old are you, brat?”

She didn’t answer.

“You afraid I’m gonna call the police?”

Finally, she nodded. Barely even at all. Just a slight tuck of her chin. Daud snorted. Like he of all fucking people was gonna call the police; he’d had enough of them to last him a damn lifetime. He smoked down his cigarette and watched her, still unmoving, as it burned to embers and ash between his fingers. He wasn’t really sure what to do with her.

She reminded him, viscerally, of himself at that age.

“Come with me, if you want to.” He settled on at last, after he’d completely smoked his cigarette down to the filter. “Or don’t. Whatever. Not really my problem if you don’t. But if you come with me, I’ll at least get a bite to eat in you.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette, and smashed it out against the pavement with the toe of his boot until it was just a tan smudge against the black tarmac. “Your call.” He turned, hands in his pockets, and left.

He got two blocks up when he heard her distant footsteps, tailing him down the alleyway and into the street. Daud switched his directions—away from the claustrophobia and the familiarity of dark and uninhabited alleyways to streets with proper sidewalks and lights, where a car drove past every ten minutes and there were people walking in both directions. She kept up, just on the edge of his hyper-vigilant paranoia, but never came any closer than those two blocks, taking her time. 

She was pretty solid at tailing.

If he’d still been working for Hiram, Daud would have recruited the girl and made a monster out of her, he was sure. She’d have been perfect for following Hiram’s less-trustworthy contacts; black and mousy and tiny with youth, they’d have paid her about as much attention as they did the dirt on the soles of their shoes, shined by poor streetside workers who they didn’t even bother to tip. As it was, though, he wasn’t recruiting for a massive criminal empire, run by one of the nastiest masterminds of the age.

He was unemployed, on parole, and just wanted to fucking go home. 

So he let the girl follow him home, leading her up to the apartment building and conspicuously leaving the gate unlocked so that she could follow in his footsteps. When she darted through but he didn’t hear the gate clang shut, Daud paused on the stairs and ducked over the railing, glared down at her.

Meekly, she shut the gate, and scurried after him. Her footsteps up the stairs were quick and awkward, and Daud led her back to his apartment, let her stand in the hallway with his door open. It was good to get some crisp air in, and she kept darting glances around the doorway as he unwrapped a lollipop and stuck it in his mouth, sucking on it in lieu of a cigarette (since Octavius _insisted_ that he not smoke in the apartment) and dug through his kitchen for something edible.

In the end, he cobbled together a toasted bagel with the last of his butter, some expired-but-still-edible turkey and cheese, and hardboiled her the remainder of his eggs, shelled them and put them in a ziplock bag.

Daud left it by the door for her, along with a disposable cup full of tap water, and the girl darted forward and immediately took the bag and the water. She was smart enough to not just try to eat it all at once (and she didn’t look like she was that close to starvation yet), but drank water first, took her time. (Daud wondered why she wasn’t at one of the homeless shelters for teens, but, then again—he’d hated them too. He didn’t blame her. He couldn’t.)

When she set his disposable plate back slightly within the doorframe, he finished stirring six packets of sugar he’d stolen from a restaurant into his instant coffee, dumping in scads of creamer to give him calories to keep going, and cleared his throat. “You got a sleeping bag?”

She jumped.

“No.” It was the first word she’d spoken to him, and her voice was husky with disuse, deep for a girl of her indeterminate-but-definitely-under-fourteen age. Having spoken, she darted back around the edge of his door and he could hear her sneakers scraping along the floor of the hallway outside. Daud let her go, dug out the shitty sleeping bag he’d been able to salvage from his personal effects that the state hadn’t seized, and stuck that in an old empty grocery bag along with some canned fruit and two plastic water bottles.

He hooked the handles around the outer side of his doorknob, and shut it. When he checked, before he went to bed, it was gone. So was the girl.

He tried not to let that weigh too much on his conscience.

 

 

In the next four days Daud had four different job interviews. The first two turned him away based on his criminal record (doctored up, of course, very diligently, since the majority of it was classified information), the third turned him away because of his resting murder bitchface, and the fourth said they might call him back, in the kind of way that jobs told you they would call you back but would never respond and would leave you waiting on them, nine months later.

The post-it began to burn a hole in his pocket, the edges of the paper frayed and the folds in it white from use and reuse, but he ignored it. Instead, he went to the library and used Word and some clipart to make a shitty flyer for butterfly knife lessons, printed it up, and spent an afternoon that weekend stapling it up everywhere he could think to. It would be some income at least, if anyone took him up on it.

(If he could still even hold a knife. How he would teach someone the tricks they wanted to know when he, himself, could barely even fucking grab the one he carried with him was—another problem, a problem for if he even got someone wanting lessons—)

He didn’t see the girl again, but Daud _did_ buy a bunch of hand- and toe-warmers from the dollar store, and put them in a grocery bag along with a box of tampons and a bottle of Motrin, because he couldn’t think of what else a confused barely-teenage child could need. It all vanished the following morning, and he just guessed she’d been sticking somewhere nearby to skive off of his innate goodness. Or whatever of it had survived homelessness, serial murder, years of an abusive relationship with that son of (no, better not to) and _jail_.

(“Daud,” Octavius Kaldwin said, pushing a container full of jambalaya into his hands, “Your month is almost up, big boy. You’ll need something soon.”

“What’re you gonna do,” Daud replied, chewing angrily on his lollipop as he took the proffered tupperware and glared up at his landlord. “If you evict me, you’re in derelict of court.”

“And if _you_ don’t get a job, you’re breaking parole. All’s fair in love and murdering people for money.” Octavius had the gall to wink. Dick.

“Fuck off.”)

There were so many reasons he might never have dialed the number on the post-it. There were so many better reasons he wouldn’t have touched it, would have thrown it away. Daud managed to pay his rent with the world’s most awkward and uncomfortable and downright _unsexy_ blow-job, because Octavius had always wanted to try letting someone pay rent in sexual favours, got another month’s worth of time to fritter away doing nothing and hating himself. He got two people interested in knife lessons despite the fact that he looked like about ten miles of bad pavement, and the money for that paid his bills and let him eat red beans and rice for every fucking meal of the day, and let him get the necessities he kept leaving out for the one person in the world he’d managed to find worse off than him.

If there hadn’t been one too many straws on his back, he’d have just thrown the post-it in the trash, or lost it, or run it through the wash. Instead it sat stuck to his fridge by a magnet, haunting his every step, but he could never make up his mind on what to do with it.

Sometimes, the universe is merciful. Rarely, yes, but sometimes. Sometimes, when people cannot make decisions or do their best with what is handed to them, the universe takes a step forward, presses a finger between their shoulder blades, and—

_Pushes_.

 

 

Daud’s push showed up on his doorstep at two in the morning on a night when it was pouring so loud that he could hear it ricocheting off of the roof from where he was laying on his pile of sheets that doubled as both a bed and couch. It smelled like humidity and ozone, the storm was so bad, and he was glad for once that even though his life was shit, at least he wasn’t out in that monster. As the thunder rolled and a forked tongue of lightning as wide as the sky cracked through the air outside his window, he heard a thud.

He thought it was rain or thunder, the rain and wind whipping a tree branch against his side of the building, and ignored it, tried to sleep. Tried to sleep and not think about how the rain had sounded when he’d been in jail. Tried to sleep and—

More thudding. Panicked thudding. On his door.

Someone was knocking.

Daud slowly climbed out of bed, and scrubbed a hand through his greying hair, pulled his boxers up high enough to be semi-presentable, and went to open the door. He opened it a crack, just enough to put one eye to it, to glare soundly at the person on the other side. “The fuck you want,” he snarled, staring at eye level and expecting to see someone’s chest staring back at him. Instead, he saw nothing but empty air—and looked down.

She was even smaller than he’d earlier thought she was, so tiny her sweatshirt hung in huge sags over her skinny frame. She was shaking violently, with cold or wet wasn’t entirely clear, and she hiccoughed when she stared at him. There was so much water on her face from the rain that Daud couldn’t tell what was or wasn’t tears, but her eyes were bright red, and she was holding her jeans together with one hand clasped around her waist.

“Did someone touch you?” Daud asked, without preamble.

He’d lived on the streets. He’d been there, in her shoes. There had been a reason for what he’d done.

There had been a reason he’d sold his soul. A reason he’d worked for Hiram Burrows.

The girl shook her head, after a moment. “Just grab you, try and cop a feel?” She nodded. He sighed, stepped out of her way so she could, cowering like a kicked dog, shy into his apartment. He made a big show of closing the door, but not locking it (he hoped the wind blowing through the opening between the apartments wouldn’t bang it open) so she had an out.

“Bathroom’s through that door,” Daud said, pointing at the half-open door to his bathroom. “There’s just soap, no shampoo. Doubt you care. Towel’s hanging from the bar. Hope you don’t mind sharing my sweaty towel.” She shook her head and darted inside, closing the door and throwing the bolt behind her. As soon as she’d slammed the door, Daud went to the stove and filled up his one pot with water, set it on the burner on low, and started to bring it to a simmer.

She showered until he was sure she’d run his shitty water cold, and Daud waited until the sound of the pounding water had turned off (at least _inside_ his apartment) before he knocked brusquely on the door, a clean pair of his boxers, a pair of old worn-thin sweats, and his one long-sleeved shirt in one hand. “Clothes out here for you by the door,” he told the girl, set the stuff down on the floor. “I haven’t got any tea or anything since this ain’t a restaurant, not fancy enough for that shit, but I’ve got a mug of hot water and some saltines with your name on them.”

“Thank you,” said his bathroom, very quietly. 

Daud smiled.

When she emerged eventually, her thick hair flattened from the water, Daud got a good look at her for the first time from his bed of sheets, hands folded on his stomach so she could see every inch of him. She took her time drinking the hot water and eating her way through his saltines, never taking her eyes off of him.

“If you want to stay, you can have the bed,” he said at last. “Or you can take the blanket and sleep in the tub.”

“Tub’s fine,” she mumbled through her mouthful, spewing a little bit of breadcrumbs into her palm as she coughed, cleared her throat, had more water and finished chewing, swallowed. He’d expected as much; the tub was behind a door she could lock between them. She may have imprinted on him like a baby bird, but she didn’t trust him.

Good. She had solid instincts. He wouldn’t trust him either.

“Thanks. For letting me have the blanket.”

“It’s not that cold.” Daud shrugged. Besides, he was a big guy for his height—he had more weight on him than she did. He’d be fine through a night that would chill her. “There’s more hot water, if you want it.” She refilled the mug, had another full drink of it. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes wide, surprised. “My landlord,” he clarified, “Is a goody-two-shoes who takes on charity cases. Even, and especially when, they don’t want it. If you want him to help you track the creeps down and get some justice, he’d probably be willing to give you a hand.”

She looked…a little stunned, at the idea.

“Like,” the girl said at last, “Fight them? Because I don’t want to get into a gang, I’ve been—“

“No.” Daud coughed as he laughed; he couldn’t imagine Octavius Kaldwin fighting literally _anyone_. He was thin as a rail and probably weighed as much wet as the girl did, despite being a solid two feet taller than she was. No. “No, god, no. He’d get his fucking ass kicked. _You_ could kick his ass. Anybody could kick his ass. I’ve met ill-tempered feral cats who could kick his ass and make him beg for mercy. I mean go to the police and get the creeps locked up. Knowing him, probably for good. 

“I like not getting stabbed to death in my sleep behind a dumpster,” the girl replied. “So no, thanks. I’ll just avoid them.” She took another sip of her hot water. “Why, did he do that for you?”

Daud nodded. She didn’t say anything after that. “I’m Daud,” he said at last. “If a guy that looks like two toothpicks mated with a stick insect and then went on a really intense fitness kick tries to talk to you, that’s the landlord. Ignore anything he says on principle.” She giggled, a little. “His name is Octavius but don’t look in his eyes or he’ll suck your soul out or something.”

“Billie,” she said. Daud nodded. Billie it was, then.

A few minutes later she started to skulk off to the bathroom, and Daud cleared his throat.

“You got a job, Billie?” She froze, a deer in the headlights. They both knew what he meant, of course—Daud wasn’t asking her if she had a steady source of income, if someone had hired the dirty homeless girl to mind their shop counter. He knew what she did to make her meagre income, to get by. It was the same thing he’d done, in another lifetime.

He was asking if she was doing it for anybody else.

“No,” Billie murmured at last, not looking at him. “I’ve had a few offers, but I don’t want to do that unless I have no other choice. I thought I might have to tonight, but...”

“You’ll always have another choice,” Daud said gruffly. The minute she stopped stealing for herself, started stealing for someone else, that was a minute too late. Gangs swallowed kids like her up whole, chewed them up, and then spit them back out the other side- skin and bones and lost opportunities. Gangs were what led to kids like her becoming fucked up, jaded, ruined adults like him.

He felt pretty invested in making sure that didn’t happen to her.

“Well,” Daud said at last, “You can stay here for tonight. You’re welcome back if you need a roof over your head. No need to thank me, either. Just...passing on what was given to me.” A good deed down the line meant more people would get it in the years to come.

He didn’t fall asleep until long after she’d locked the bathroom door.

 

 

Three days later, Daud sat down with his pre-paid cell phone and got the sticky note his parole officer had given him down from off the fridge. He’d worn it ragged twisting it back and forth between his fingers, to the point the ink was starting to smudge and fade. But the text was still legible (enough) for him to be able to see the name and number written on it. It was Samuel Beechworth, who owned a pub. He fidgeted some more with the card, and then finally leaned over and put his face down flat on the hard, cold wood of the table.

This was stupid.

He’d been less nervous about being _shot_ than calling this guy. But charity was charity, and even when he’d either had to take a handout or spend the rest of his life in prison, he’d gone with it kicking and screaming. Like this, he barely even wanted to consider it.

But then he remembered Billie, sleeping in his borrowed sweats in his bathtub, drinking hot water and eating saltines, and _fuck—_ if he’d had someone who’d even just given him a saltine when he’d been in her shoes, anyone at all—he would have died for them, gone down on his knees for them, done anything they’d asked and more.

(Hiram Burrows had.)

Daud snapped his flip phone open and angrily slammed in the buttons of the man’s phone number, furious and terrified at turns at the idea of another kid, _another_ generation being snatched up and having their lives ruined just so they could have something to eat, and as soon as it started to ring through he threw the sticky note to spin awkwardly through the air across the room, hit the opposite wall, and fall to the floor.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang a few more times, and then rang some more, and then went to the answering machine. So he’d psyched himself up for goddam nothing.

“Hi,” said a thick, drawling voice, older and scratchy. Sounded like someone who’d been an alcoholic when they were younger, maybe, and didn’t sleep well at night. “You’ve reached Sam Beechworth. If it’s a business inquiry, please call the pub and leave the message there, or shoot me an email at sambeechworth at gmail dot com. If this is a personal inquiry, leave a message after the tone with your name and phone number. If this is anybody whose last name is Kaldwin and who is over six feet tall and possessing male genitalia, you can fuck right off. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.”

The answering machine beeped, and reflexively Daud hung up, staring blankly at the tile in his kitchen, at a dirty spot on the grouting.

_How the fuck did everybody know Octavius Kaldwin?_  

He dialled the number again and waited for it to ring through to the answering machine beep before he hung up a second time, still unsure of what to say, or how best to word it. There was not really a good way to go into this introduction, after all, but it was sitting before him. He’d never been one to run from his problems.

The third time it rang through to the answering machine, Daud finally left a message. “I was given your number and told you’re looking for muscle as a bouncer, I guess. My name’s Daud and when I was in jail someone cut my face open with a sharpened nickel so I broke his jaw in four places, and I still have the scars. You’ve got my number.”

He hung up and chucked his phone into his sheets pile. Close enough.

The call back was two days later, at mid afternoon. Daud picked up reflexively, used to getting calls from numbers he didn’t recognise after working for Burrows for years, and grunted into the receiver rather than say _hello_ like some people did. “’S this uh...Daud?” Said the voice down the line.

“What’s it to you?” It came out of his mouth before he could even stop himself.

“I’m Samuel Beechworth. Got your message about getting my number, looking for bouncer work?” Daud held the phone far enough away from his mouth that he could whisper _fuck_ and punch his thigh in frustration. _Fuck_. “That still stand?”

“Yeah,” Daud managed after a moment. “Sorry, I’m. Not used to getting calls. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s fine. I guessed you were the bad at socialisation type based on your message.” Daud flushed, angrily, for the first time in about ten years. He’d really screwed that one up. Foot, meet mouth. “You done bouncer work before?”

“Done something like it. You need someone intimidating who doesn’t actually want to fight, but can recognise a situation before it gets to escalation, yeah? I look like hell and I’m built like a brick shithouse. And the, uh, aforementioned clink experience.” Although, not so much since he’d run out of money and switched to eating fucking saltines. “So I can probably do it.” The other end of the phone line was quiet.

“Who passed along my number?”

“Parole officer.”

“You good on parole? Had any problems or issues? I’m gonna be doing a hell of a background check.”

“Hey, the officer is your friend, you can ask him.” Somehow, Daud thought mentioning Octavius would be a bad idea.

“What were you in for? How long?”

“Fraud, and a little under two years.” The lie rolled easily enough off of his lips; according to all the official legal paperwork, it was true. They—Octavius—had doctored it pretty significantly just before his release, covered complex and complicated paper trails that left dozens dead and a scheme so big taking it down had nearly cost Daud his life, more than once over, and that had just been _before_ he’d been let out. “I’ve got all the paperwork and such if you need to take a look.”

“You free Tuesday?”

Daud had no job, no friends, no money, no hobbies, nowhere to go, and nothing to do.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

“How’s two?”

“Fine.”

“Did you get my business card?” Daud looked over at where he’d chucked it.

“No, just your number.”

“Well, grab a pencil so I can give you the address, and come on over and let me take a look at you. Bring the paperwork, and we’ll sit down and have a talk and see if you’ll be a good fit before I do the check.” A moment later, Samuel gave him the address, which Daud scrambled to write on the back of the folded-up sticky note on his floor, then they said their goodbyes and Daud closed his phone and planted his face directly into the tabletop, mashed his nose into the faux-wood, and groaned until he ran out of breath.

 

 

Daud showed up to his interview in his one nice shirt and slacks, pressed by hanging them in the shower and steaming them, flattened between his dollar-store plates, while Billie watched from the closed lid of the toilet, utterly fascinated. She came with him on the back of his bike, wearing his one motorcycle helmet and a used-but-close-to-brand new leather motorcycle jacket he’d bought with literally the last of the money he had.

Daud had noticed her sweatshirt fraying. Had noticed the way she kept showing up at his apartment, rather than going back to wherever it was she’d been staying. He’d heard her crying at night, and known he—a big, dangerous man, regardless of what he had gone through at her age—was not the one to talk to her about it. He could give her somewhere safe, and let it play out, and do what he wished someone had done for him when he had been in her shoes. A heavy jacket, to make her feel stronger, larger, was just the right thing.

A heavy jacket he may or may not have put a can of mace in, but if anyone asked him he didn’t know a damn thing about that.

The pub that Samuel Beechworth ran was neither a glitzy place for the twentysomething with all kinds of strange craft beers and mixed drinks, nor was it ye-olde run of the mill shithole knockoff Dunwall bar that smelled distinctly of mildew and cigars and only served dark brew on tap and was vaguely, mildly racist but only if you squinted from the right angle. It was a fairly nice place, with an unobtrusive storefront, big dark windows, and a middle-aged man standing out in front, in a weather-beaten raincoat about the colour of mud. Even though the forecast hadn’t said anything about rain. “You Daud?” He said, as Daud parked his bike and pushed down the kickstand, Billie unpeeling from his back, giggling madly with delight. 

“Got it in one.” He slid off of his bike, left Billie perched on the seat, and went to join Samuel by the storefront. “Sorry about the kid; she’s had a couple tough days, didn’t want to leave her alone.” Samuel looked back and forth between Daud and Billie, then, his brow creased in thought. Daud was Serkonan, and had the swarthy complexion to prove it, but Billie was black, and also about twelve. So maybe—

Which was why when Samuel replied, “She yours?” Daud blinked at him, completely blindsided. “Your kid, I mean,” the older man clarified, needlessly.

“What?” Daud finally managed to get his brain to his mouth and words to come out of the latter. “No, she’s just—“ what was she, though? She was a homeless brat who pickpocketed people to eat, and he’d taken her in like a stray cat. Bought her food. Bought her a jacket. Brought her with him to a job interview after she showed up at half-three, trembling like a terrified dog with her eyes so wide he could see the whites all the way around, and whispered to him through the shut bathroom door,

_What did you say when they came to ask you to join?_

“I’m just helping her get by, that’s all.” Daud settled on at last. “Do a good turn, get a good turn, you know. Reminds me of myself when I was her age.”

“I can _hear you_ , you know!” Billie said, loudly enough to carry to them standing by the storefront, up on the pavement. “I like, have ears? And stuff? Daud’s smelly and weird and buys cheap shitty soap and if he was my dad I’d sell him to a ratcatcher.”

Samuel’s face settled on a half-amused grimace of a smile as he stared back at the girl, chuckling under his breath.

“She’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Daud admitted. “She is.”

Samuel scratched his chin, blue with stubble, and gestured to Daud. “Okay, bring the kid, let’s talk inside.” He led the way back to the bar and pushed the door open, and Daud held it so Billie could sneak past it. She skulked in like an embarrassed shadow and went to the bar when Samuel gestured her over, busying himself behind the wood until he spun out a sparkling soda thing in a big beer stein, topped with a maraschino cherry. “Shirley Temple, for putting up with your dad. Just a little something to bribe you to behave while we talk boring grown-up job talk.”

“What is _that_ ,” Billie gasped, and immediately started drinking it. Daud sighed. She was going to be off the fucking walls later, but at least Samuel had distracted her.

“You smoke?” Samuel asked, gesturing at Daud’s yellowed fingers, and he nodded. “All right, come with me round the back. She’ll be fine in here.” Daud followed Samuel out the back door to the rear alley of the bar. All there was out there were some dumpsters, one for recycling and one for trash, and the rear driveway for deliveries. Samuel leaned, raincoat and all, against the back wall and fished a tin of chewing tobacco out of one pocket. Daud joined him in pulling out a cigarette, and leaned against the wall beside him. “I keep meaning to quit this shit,” Samuel told him, almost conspiratorially. “Keep telling myself, I’m gonna quit this year. Been telling myself that for eight years. Ain’t quit yet.” He closed the tin after he’d taken his pinch, and put it away as he tucked it into his lip. “Down to four tins a year, though, so we’re getting there.”

“That’s good.” Daud started at his cigarette, and pulled out a lighter, set the end smoking. He hadn’t even considered trying to quit. It was an expensive, bank-breaking habit for a man who was essentially living so on the edge of homelessness that the prison income from working in the commissary was starting to look more appealing by the week. You never knew what you would miss until you didn’t have it. “You’re a good example. It’s a hard habit to break. Wish I had the balls to do it.”

“I’m guessing you’re talking from experience?” Daud nodded mutely. Samuel crossed his arms. “I called around to do your background check, ended up hearing some things back from Octavius Kaldwin, of all people.” Daud groaned. That goddam guy. God. “Oh, don’t get weird about it.” Samuel’s laugh was a rough, ragged thing, but he seemed happy enough. “He did some pro bono work for me a decade or so back, when he’d just gotten out of law school. Did me a real favour, he did. He mentioned he didn’t know it was my number you’d been given.”

“Yeah,” Daud sighed, smoke exhaling out his nose. “Got it from my parole officer. I’ve been shit out of luck when it comes to finding work, and I gotta pay rent.” It was best to be honest.

Samuel paused. Cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little short to be a bouncer?” Daud turned his gaze on the other man and _glared_. Samuel remained completely unfazed. “Look, it’s a valid question. The whole point of being a bouncer ain’t to start fights, Daud. I heard what you got up to in prison from Oc, after your point about you being battle-hardened.”

“I kept my head _down_ in prison,” he protested, likely in vain. “What trouble I got in got brought to me. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t spend my whole damn life looking for fights. I just tend to get into a _lot more_ than anybody else I know. Apparently, there’s just something about my face folks really don’t like” Samuel laughed that smoky laugh again. 

“All right, sorry ‘bout bruising your sensitivities. I _am_ looking for a bouncer, but I’m looking for someone to scare folks off before the fight ever gets started. And to keep an eye on guests because I can’t see everything; I don’t want anybody getting roofied or taken home without their full and willing consent. I just need someone to nip problems in the bud when they can be, and if they can’t be, to clearly and concisely deal with the issue. I don’t want fights. Property damage and court cases are bad for business.” 

“I can do that. The last thing I want is any more court cases, ever, in my entire damn life, thanks.” Daud tapped ash off of the tip of his cigarette. “Look, I’ve never done it before, but I’ve done bodyguard work and I’ve guarded my fair share of meetings people weren’t supposed to go into. I don’t think a bar can be that different.” 

Samuel arched a single eyebrow.

“You got any references or a resume?” Daud flushed the same angry red as his bike was painted.

“No,” he admitted, after a moment. “They’re all either dead or in prison.” 

Samuel stared at him, and this time threw his head all the way back as he laughed, full-bodied and clearly _deeply_ amused. “Well,” he managed after a moment, wheezing, “I guess that’s one way to do nothing by halves. _Everyone_ you’ve ever worked for?”

“Do you want a list?”

Samuel waved a hand. “No, no, it’s not necessary. Octavius trusts you, and that’s enough for me. You can take a trial run this weekend. Train you tomorrow and Thursday, and then you can do shifts Friday through Monday and then we can see if it’s the right fit for you. How’s that sound?”

“You paying me even if it doesn’t work out?”

Samuel nodded. “Starting rate’s $13 an hour, and if you stick around it’ll be benefits. If you want retirement, we can probably set something up. I know bouncing’s a limited-time job, and I hate scalping my employees. The bar makes enough I don’t really need to be stingy with giving everyone proper fucking paychecks.” Samuel finished his tobacco, spat it out into the dumpster with unerring aim. “You’re caring for the girl, right?” 

“Yeah.” Daud rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s a smart kid; keeps getting harassed at the shelters and on the street. Had a run in with some nasty pieces of work a few weeks back, and I don’t want her to have to again. So I guess she’s mine now.”

“Then starting rate is $15. Gotta keep you both afloat somehow, and growing children need to eat. You get a free meal nights you’re on shift, and I can chuck in another one for the kid.” Daud stared at him, and Samuel squeezed his shoulder. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve been shit on real hard these last few years. You seem a good young man. People who’re so broke they can’t afford a new lighter but are still feeding a kid they owe nothing to are good folks in my book.” Daud couldn’t deny any of that. Samuel clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll go give the kid another soda; I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, ‘round three?”

“Sounds good,” Daud managed, still a little bit baffled. But pleased?

 

  

He awoke on his first day after training, to his first official day of full-time employment, to the kind of worrying press of bile high and nauseating in the back of his throat, choking his gag reflex, that he’d thought had been left behind when he had left prison for good. The fear response, the knowledge that _something_ was wrong. Something, something was _wrong_ , something was _missing_. The kind of animal hind-brain reminder that the world was out of his control and he was on a fast track to the deep end.

He didn’t know what, but Daud lay there in his makeshift bed of sheets, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead, stared at the ceiling. And tried to figure out what was wrong, because nothing _seemed_ wrong.

He dressed, showered, ate saltines, drank three cups of tap water, did his morning workout in silence in his empty, furniture-less apartment, and then left for work. He didn’t worry about something being wrong, didn’t worry about the horrible clenching anxiety that tightened his chest and left him on-edge and as tense as a deer about to bolt. He worked the evening shift, and went home, exhausted but pleased with his work and found— 

The door to his apartment had been bust down. It hung jankily off of the hinges, half-toppled inside. The lock had splintered. Daud, carefully, pulled his knife and stepped silently over the threshold, his heartbeat pounding like a river over a hundred foot drop in his ears, his whole body on alert. It was absolutely dead silent. There wasn’t even a breeze. Inside, his few possessions had been rifled through, one of the windows had been bust out, and the bathroom door had been smashed into splinters, the handle literally cut out of the wood with what looked like had been a hacksaw.

The shower curtain had been torn down and hung suspended from only two rings, draped halfway out of the tub, dripping water all over the tile floor. The mirror was cracked and shattered. There was blood in the bathtub, and the leather coat Daud had bought for Billie was bundled up in the porcelain, along with what looked like two of her fingernails.

He put his knife away, and mechanically, not even realising he was moving, righted both doors. It was something he could fix; something _easy_. He shut the outer one, and went straight upstairs to pound on Octavius’ door until the landlord opened it. He was in just his boxers, his hair sticking up everywhere, his bottlecap glasses shoved all the way up his nose. He looked like he’d just woken up—and knowing him, it could well have been true. 

“What,” he said.

“Got robbed.” Daud replied. Octavius blinked. Being flabbergasted was a good look on him.

“You don’t even fucking own a _pillow_ , what the hell did you get robbed of?”

“ _Billie_.” In the following few seconds, Kaldwin’s face cycled between about eight different expressions, and then settled on _thundercloud._ He took in a deep breath. Gently steepled his fingers, and slowly took off his glasses. Daud had spent years around men who could look dangerous. He’d spent more years around men who could hide it under a perfect veneer, like bottled lightning or poison.

At that moment, the way Octavius looked topped them all.

“Give me five minutes.” Octavius shut the door in Daud’s face, and he paced in front of the other man’s apartment while he waited, fishing out his last lollipop, and shoved it angrily in his mouth until the door opened again. His landlord was properly dressed this time, in dirty work sneakers, practical jeans, and a thick sweater. Even though it wasn’t cold. He’d even taken the time to but a whale barrette in his hair, pinning his bangs out of his face.

Together, the two of them went down to Daud’s apartment and looked through everything again, this time systematically, Octavius noting down property damage. “This is going to be a fucking fortune to fix,” Octavius grumbled as they sorted through what had been disturbed. “When I find who did this, I’m taking the money out of their hides.” Daud didn’t doubt that he would do it, either. “Do you know which gang it was?” He had always like that Octavius put shit together on his own, sometimes preternaturally fast, because it meant Daud could just explain rather than answer.

“She never named any names,” Daud replied, hooking his shower curtain back up. His lips, it felt like, would never un-purse again. "If I had to guess, she didn't want me to go follow up with the folks who were fucking with her." There was a bang from the kitchen, and the other man swore. "Seems like something she'd do."

"There's," Octavius said, "a bullet stuck in your stove. Shot right through the damn door. Who fucking does that? Honestly?" Daud ducked back out of the bathroom to see where the other man was looking, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Great. Now he was down a stove, too.

"Given the violence here, I think you only have one option." Octavius paused, looked at Daud. "I know you have little interest in supporting the continued function of the state-sanctioned legal justice system, but a gang-related kidnapping of a minor from the man who is ostensibly her only semblance of a legal guardian is—"

"No."

Octavius stopped, looked over at Daud. Daud, who was rolling his sleeves up, and walking over to the one and only piece of furniture he had in his apartment that hadn't come standard with the rental. He'd not had the money to buy much of anything, but he had gone out, splurged, on one single thing. It was one of those lock boxes, the kind that has to have a dialed number as the key, and was about as big as a U-Haul box. He knelt down beside it, dialled the eight digit number to open the lock, and flipped the lid open. Octavius, the damn curious son of a bitch, came shuffling over after him after a moment, and stopped a few feet behind him, arms folded behind his back, as Daud reached in and took out the only things inside.

A pair of near-skintight brown leather gloves, worn thin and lined with years of use. A pistol, which he checked to see if it was loaded before he put the safety on and shrugged it into a shoulder holster that he pulled out with it.

And—a knife. Not the little butterfly knife he normally carried with him, just for the sake of his fucked-up paranoia, but a _proper_ nasty switchblade, the blade of which was nearly as long as his forearm. He held it there for a long time, staring at the handle, the metal of it worn to staining from the years he'd spent gripping it, sweat and oil from his hands tarnishing the steel, blood from its use making it heavy with unspent regrets.

"Daud," Octavius said. His deep voice was a single, low note of warning. _Don't do this_ , Daud could already hear him saying, and he dropped the knife into his pocket, stood up, turned around, and faced the other man.

"What?" He snapped, arms crossed over his chest, the buttons of his shirt straining under the stretch. "You want me to just call the police and know that they're probably never going to find her? Another missing little black girl? One among dozens? Octavius, you can't fucking honestly—" 

The other man held up a hand to stop his tirade. "You should. Call the police, I mean, and report a missing person. That is what you _should_ do. That is what I, as your lawyer, and also as your friend, should make you do. That is your legal obligation. It’s also, obviously, not what you’re going to do, and I know better than to try and stop you. What you're _going_ to do is go find them and make sure nobody ever lays another hand on her precious head again, which is something that I can support. I've known you for years now, and I've never seen you as happy as that girl makes you. So, no, you're not going to call the police, but you're _also_ not going to march out there all by yourself and I'm not going to let you go kill anyone."

"What are you going to do, stop me?"

Octavius snorted. "No," he replied, like it was the most logical thing in the world, "I'm going to come with you."

 

 

Things he hadn't been expecting: this. "This," of course, was Octavius Kaldwin in his shitty Volvo driving Daud across town to the network of alleys where he had first met Billie. If that was the turf she'd been living on before he'd accidentally adopted her like a stray cat, it would be the best place to start toward finding out which gang in particular had tried to snipe her for their own.

A few years ago, this network of backward alleys would have been on Hiram's turf, and Daud would have been the one enforcing. But not anymore. He had no idea who was dealing with it now. The little-league fuckers had moved in once the big players were out of the picture, gotten cocky, gotten _stupid_.

But, then again, the Knife of Dunwall was in jail, they said. For life. No parole. No reprieves.

They'd forgotten what it was like when he'd walked the streets.

Octavius parked far enough away that tracing them to their car would actually take a modicum of effort, and the two of them climbed out together. They walked around until Daud found the alley he'd met Billie in to begin with. There was a skinny, skeevy-looking white guy standing around smoking next to a dumpster, and he practically radiated small-time crook, enough that Daud just sneered and hiked his shoulders up. "Just play along," he told Octavius, and walked up to the guy, who was so focused on his cigarette that he didn't notice them until Daud kicked the empty dumpster, the metal clanging with the impact, and he nearly jumped out of his own skin, spinning around to stare boggle-eyed at them both.

He didn't move for a long minute.

Daud cocked both his eyebrows.

"What gang do you work for?" The guy blinked at him. Daud had to resist the urge to roll his eyes so far back into his own head that they unmoored from his optic nerve and became cue balls. "You've got until I count to ten to fess up, or I'm putting one in your kneecap."

"I don't," the guy started, stumbling over his words, "I don't work for anybody, I don't know—"

"One," Daud started. "Two. Three—"

"Dude I'm just trying to get a smoke I don't know what you want from me are you undercover cops or something or what—"

"—Seven, eight—"

"Fuck wait you're serious oh God, are you—"

"Nine." Daud paused, took his pistol out of its shoulder holster, and took off the safety. Pointed it straight at the dude's kneecap. For a long moment they stared at one another, and he just breathed.

"T—"

"Please don't shoot me," the man begged, his voice cracking. "The Pendletons. I work for the Pendletons. They took over this roost once the old folks fucked off. Seriously, I don't know anything more than that, I just run some of their numbers." Daud hesitated, staring at the man, but he looked about halfway to pissing his pants, so he was probably telling the truth.

He put his safety back on and holstered the gun, crossed his arms over his chest. Daud knew when he did that it made his pecs and biceps stand out, and he wanted all the creeping, dead-eyed malice he could get going for this intimidation on his side. He knew better than to really believe the Pendletons were running the joint; those two brothers had about as much brains put together as a pile of asphalt. If he had to guess correctly, they were doing the legwork for A Higher Power.

Probably Campbell.

Campbell had worked with Hiram, and had paid his way out of any real sentence after Daud had sold the whole empire out. It had fucking bankrupted him, too. Gotten him excommunicated to boot. He’d not really expected it to last, and now it seemed that he knew how Campbell was going to make back all his missing riches.

"Thanks for the tip," Daud said. "Now get the fuck out of my sight and get a goddam real job." The man took off running, dropping his cigarette to the pavement as he went, and Daud didn't look away until he'd turned the corner onto the street on the other side of the alley. Then, very slowly, he reached out his foot and crushed out the cigarette butt into the pavement with the toe of his shoe, until it was nothing but a fine paste of ashes coating the tarmac. "Come on," he murmured after another moment. "I'll give you directions on how to get to the right place. We’re not going after the legs of the beast; I’m going to personally punch the teeth out of the beast’s head."

 

 

It wasn't in Dunwall proper. Campbell had been born to wealth and he'd used his money to make himself rich as Croesus and safe as houses. In the end, all it had done had managed was to keep him out of jail and under house arrest for life with Daud's damning testimony on the stand, but he apparently had gotten bored of that. How a man of the cloth could end up so bad was just—

Sometimes, Daud wondered why shitty people did shitty things. Sometimes he got stuck in a rut over why people were nasty, self-centred, disgusting trash heaps so much of the time. But there was no answer to that; there never had been or would be. People were shitty. It was a part of—a way of—life. If you spent all your time trying to figure out what and why you'd never go anywhere.

He still did it despite that, though.

Anyway, Campbell lived outside the city proper, in an old mansion he'd had renovated when he was rolling in it, that was now, as they drove up, starting to fall into disrepair because Campbell couldn't afford the upkeep. The gates weren't even guarded. It was just a fucking junk heap.

Octavius parked at the foot of the driveway and Daud slid out the passenger door, only to pause when the other man grabbed his wrist, held him back. "What?" he snapped, glaring at him. Octavius glared right back.

"I'm coming in with you."

"You're gonna get _shot_ if you do that."

"What, and you aren't?"

"Look," Daud growled, rubbing his temples. "I'm not going to be responsible for getting you hurt, or worse. Because, for one thing, I owe you my life, and for another, I still haven't paid you rent."

"I'm not going because of _that_." Octavius snorted. "I'm going because this dick got out of jail because I couldn't pound home that he was too dangerous to be let to run amok, and also because he broke into my apartment building and kidnapped a helpless teenager and I don't like that at all." He paused. "And also because you're my friend, and if you die, you still owe me rent."

 

 

They let Daud in the front door the minute he pulled his gun, because Campbell might be trying to amass a criminal empire, but he wasn't exactly starting from on-high. Anybody building a gang out of the remains of an old one—especially one as high-profile as the mess Hiram Burrows had left behind—was going to be facing serious roadblocks. Like _most of the people who used to work with him were in jail,_ that was a big one. There was also the fact that he was a known tattler to keep himself afloat, and the fact that the ideal time for him to try and build a new organised crime empire would have been right after Hiram had been arrested and the power vacuum was giving way. But...Campbell had been in jail at the time himself, so he was late to the punch.

Daud was shown into a study, Octavius right behind his shoulder, and they stood there, waiting, until Campbell showed up. He took his time, and finally waltzed in in what was clearly supposed to be a housecoat, but just looked like a moth-eaten bathrobe, and the minute he stepped in the door, before he could even say anything, Daud had pulled out his switchblade.

Thaddeus looked at him. Daud stared back. Held the blade up, and very carefully opened it. It was the loudest noise in the otherwise-silent room. "Where the fuck did you come from," Campbell stumbled over half the words, and Daud crossed the room to him in five steps, grabbed him by the collar, and rammed him against the wall. He pressed the cold metal of the flat edge of the blade to the man's soft throat. "Daud," Thaddeus began, and he cut the other man off by kneeing him in the stomach, making him _oof_.

"You," Daud said, carefully, conversationally, like he did this every day, "broke into my fucking apartment."

"That was—" Thaddeus laughed. Hysterically. "That was _your_ apartment? I had no idea, and here I thought. That was. Just someone random's apartment!" Daud shook him so hard he was pretty sure he heard the man’s teeth rattle. “Okay, look, I’d been tracking someone and she was in there.” 

“If you don’t tell me where Billie is in the next five minutes,” Daud said, his voice so close to a whisper it was almost inaudible, catching against the roof of his mouth and hissing between his grit teeth, “I’m going to personally, right here, cut both your balls off, slice your nostrils open, and shove them in there and hold your mouth shut so you drown on your own fucking blood and suffocate like that. We clear?”

Thaddeus Campbell nodded.

He was a smart man.

Daud lowered his knife, and gestured with it to the nearest couch. Campbell went and sat down, looking in right fear between Daud and Octavius, who had somehow managed to draw himself properly to his full height and somehow made his gangly, insectoid frame into something impressive and fearsome. He glowered.

“She’s probably down at the warehouse,” Campbell said, swallowing thickly as he spoke. “With a couple of guys. Look, she showed up on our turf and started pickpocketing. She’s _good_ , Daud. She’s got the skills to make a career out of it. If she wasn’t going to come along willingly I just thought—she’s homeless, nobody would care,” He casually closed his knife, but never once did the other man look away from it. “We knew she’d been staying with someone but I never thought you were into, you know. I mean, I can’t say anything, but—“

“I’m not fucking her,” Daud growled, “and if you insinuate that again, I’m going to cut your left eye out.”

“Crystal clear. Got it. Got it.” Campbell shifted awkwardly. “She’s yours if you want her, just leave me the fuck alone. You’ve already ruined my life once over.” Daud snorted as he put his knife away.

“If I’d done it properly, you would still be rotting in jail like Hiram. You’re lucky you managed to buy off parole.” He paused, nodded to Campbell’s house arrest ankle cuff. “Enjoy wearing that for the rest of your life.” Campbell didn’t look happy. “Where’s the warehouse?”

“21st and Exeter. Down by the Flooded District.” The short name for the docks, that had been overflowed so many times by high waters that now the place had the permanent marks of flood waters on most building walls.

“Come on,” Daud said, not looking to Octavius. He didn’t want to take his eyes off of Campbell, who was as slippery as a snake. “We can go now.”

“Fine,” Octavius replied. “I just have one thing first.” And with that, Daud’s ex-pro bono human rights lawyer, current landlord and occasional rent-related fuck walked over, grabbed Thaddeus Campbell by his collar, hauled him up off of the couch cushions where he was seated, pulled his fist back, and clocked the man a right hook hard enough his head snapped backwards.

“The _fuck_?” Campbell shouted, as Octavius dropped him back to the couch cushions, pointed one imperious finger directly at his nose.

“You break into my apartment building again, shithog, and I’ll make sure Daud has the full extent of the law at his back to do what he said he’d do to your balls and more.” Octavius paused, and then, seemingly on some kind of a whim, pulled back and punched the man a second time. This time it was enough to knock him sprawling on the couch, baffled and apparently completely speechless. “And if you ever lay a hand on Billie again _this_ time I’ll put you so deep in jail they’ll have to entomb you in the fucking cement because your chances of ever getting out will be so slim.”

“Holy shit,” Thaddeus Campbell said, because sometimes, that was the only way to respond to a Kaldwin. They were all forces of nature. Evil, kind of terrifying, forces of nature. You did what they said, and got the hell out of their way.

They left the way they’d come, and Octavius started his car, and drove.

 

 

Campbell had obviously called ahead, because when they got to the warehouse, Billie was dumped outside on the corner, duct-tape still plastered over her mouth and her hands zip-tied behind her back. Daud barely paused long enough to get out and bundle her into the backseat of the car, cramming himself in beside her. It was an awkward fit, even given how tiny the girl was—he was just too fucking wide, built like a brick shithouse as he was, to fit crouched on the floor of the backseat.

Octavius drove slowly down sidestreets so tiny they didn’t even have signs as Daud cut her zipties with his butterfly knives, not wanting to trust that delicate work to his Knife, and then warned her with a, “Sorry,” before he grabbed the edge of the duct tape and ripped it off her mouth.

“Fucking shit!” Billie yelped, as it came free, tears visible in her eyes, her teeth grit. She immediately started rubbing at her lips and cheeks, blinking back her tears, before she threw her arms around Daud’s chest and buried herself in his shoulder. “That _hurt_!”

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “Sorry. Like ripping off a band-aid. Quicker’s better.” Daud shifted and slumped back into the chairs, shoved his feet into the back of the passenger seat.

“Daud,” Octavius said, warningly, “you’d better not be putting your feet on my chair. Your shoes are filthy.” Daud took them right back down to the floor again, but otherwise remained still while Billie cried into his shirt.

He’d need a new shirt.

She’d need a new shirt too, actually.

By the end of about four blocks, she’d calmed down and just remained tucked into his side, sniffling occasionally. Octavius fished one spider-hand into his glove compartment and came up with a box of granola bars, which he tossed in the back and Daud didn’t manage to catch before the cardboard smacked him in the nose. “That should tide you over,” the man said, as he started pulling out onto proper streets. “I’m going to go find a drive-through and get you food and water. Then we’re going to the police.” Billie gasped, looked between Daud and Octavius.

“I—I _can’t_ ,” she whispered. Even as she said it, though, she’d torn open one of the granola bars and shoved half of it whole in her mouth, was chewing it as she spoke. “It’s too dangerous. I’m not supposed to talk about it. We just leave this kinda stuff—“

“No,” Daud said, quietly. Billie looked back at him. “Oc knows his shit,” he said after a moment longer. Looked back at her. She didn’t know who he was; and he didn’t want her to. He wasn’t sure he wanted _anyone_ to. “Thaddeus Campbell had you kidnapped out of my apartment and I’ve put his ass in jail once, I’m not even the _slightest_ bit scared to put him in again.” Billie giggled against his shoulder at the admission. “If anybody can get him nailed for this, it’s Oc.”

“Okay,” Billie murmured, still shying into him. “Yeah. Okay.”

 

 

They didn’t get out of the police station until almost seven in the morning, statements taken from all three of them. Billie would not, even when asked to by the on-duty trauma nurse, step away from Daud. After they let her go, almost all her clothes taken for evidence, he stripped off his shirt and she bundled it around her narrow frame. It dwarfed her, even as short as he was, and she stayed glued to his side like a burr as they produced a pair of underwear and cheap basketball shorts for her, flip flops on her feet.

Her dark eyes were haunted, but she seemed safe enough at his side. So that was good; that was best.

He filled out the guardianship paperwork someone produced, and got instructions on how to take it to the city court to file to be her legal guardian. He’d never wanted a dependent but. Well. Someone had to take care of her.

When the police at last let them leave, the city was drenched in wan dawn sunlight, casting yellow and red swathes of light over Dunwall, the skyscrapers of downtown throwing long, spindly-fingered shadows over the blocks and houses. Octavius drove them to a nearby twenty-four hour warehouse store, and he paid with cash out of his wallet at the checkout register, his gaunt cheeks marred with dark circle smudge-bruises under his eyes, yawning into the back of his hands as they bought a twelve-pack of underwear, running loose, two pairs of jeans, a new sweatshirt, and a selection of t-shirts. And, because Octavius was weird, his own version of a gift—a bunch pack of little patterned rolls of paper tape they’d found in the useless junk section by the registers. Each roll was patterned with a different variety of sea creatures, and he was clearly pleased with himself. 

“Thanks?” Billie mumbled when he handed it to her, ruffled her short, spring-curl hair. 

“You’re a good kid,” he said, and they all drove home. “I’ve got an empty furnished unit nobody’s gotten the lease on yet, you two can stay there while Daud’s apartment gets repaired.” He paused. “Not like it’s not a shitheap anyway.” Billie giggled, and Daud rolled his eyes, slumping in the passenger seat, chilly from the cold morning air without his shirt, which Billie was still wrapped in. Even after shimmying into proper clothes in the backseat, she had kept it on, and had tucked her skinny little legs into it. 

“Seriously,” Daud groaned, pinching the oft-broken bridge of his nose, “are you going to teach her to sound like that?” 

“I’m the fun uncle,” Octavius replied, archly. “It is my job to teach her words like _shitheap_.”

Billie giggled again, and it was all right.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter and tumblr @jonphaedrus


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